Suffering in Silence
by littiot
Summary: A dark story of rape, abuse, and attempted suicide. Enter if you dare.


Caution: This story is dark and contains rape, and mention of suicide. omg wat.

Twilight does not belong to me.

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It slept quietly, undisturbed on a shelf among it's brothers and sisters. The silence that accompanied them would seem eerie to a visitor, but was welcomed by them. Some days, they would sleep like this for hours. Some weeks, for days. At times, there was a discernable pattern when they were aroused from their slumber, but lately it has been coming as a surprise.

Suicide had been attempted by many, but was thwarted nearly every time. The unbearable pain masked their fear as they fell one by one—by their own will, that never even belonged to them. But only one or two of these many refugees had escaped through death's sweet embrace. They were all MIA.

The door opened slightly, emitting a tiny squeak that echoed through the room. None of them seemed to notice, however, and simply slept on, not dreaming of any sweet bliss, for they knew none of that any longer. All they knew were blackened days of pain, yet were unable to do a single thing about it. It was as if the omniscient force controlling them was intent on inducing pain not only to them, but to unleash upon the masses. And yet they could do nothing.

She walked in with a pace that was not steady, but not shaky. Though it is hard to describe, she herself always had a perfect word or three to depict scenery, actions, and nearly anything her scripts called for. Of course, she hadn't admitted the use of her personal aide—the one who had suffered the most over these years. The one which sat vulnerably on her desk, shaking on the inside, brimming with fear. But none of that emotion could be shown, as it keeps the same face it has always had—just as the others do—with the exception of a few damaging scars from where it had tried to resist.

Stephanie Meyer grinned to herself as she circled her desk. Oh _yes_. Her third installment of her popular Twilight series, which names eludes me now for good reason, had become a bestseller. Well, why wouldn't it? Her other two books were such smashing successes around the world, which is why she had decided to come here again in the first place. She had arrived to write another novel, another cashcow success, and eyed the thesaurus laying in wait on her desk. Her great helper, her best friend, her whore.

She placed her notebook and pencil neatly beside each other in preparation, turning back to her victim. She grins malevolently, running a finger down it's spine. It shivers internally, dreading what was going to happen next. She twirls her finger around the cardboard cover—it was cheap, and she had gotten it on sale. How lucky she was, it worked the same as those high-priced ones covered in leather, she thought to herself as she continued to caress the cover. Ever so slowly, she lifts the cover with one hand, unzipping her pants with the other. Inside, it was crying. Nothing could stop this, nothing, no one had ever dared to stop this. This…this…horrifying process.

Her grin stretched, and she slammed her pelvic region into the pages, giving a sharp gasp at the sudden contact, a small moan trickling out. She began to thrust her body at a steady pace, coaxing out mental screams from her prey. Gradually, words began to slide from the thesaurus and onto the neatly penciled words in her notebook, sliding in between nouns and phrases in order to add a descriptive quality to Edward's eyes, or Bella's average-girlishness. It looked in horror as it's words began to slip away—each one causing a new pang of suffering. It called back to them frantically, reached out, begged, but nothing worked. They were gone, misused, misplaced, and broken. And there was nothing it could do about it.

Stephanie thrusted harder and harder, moaning in delight and anticipation. The pages had begun to tear from her roughness, but she didn't care in the least. By now, her notebook was bulging with bunches of adjectives, most of which had no place being there. But it didn't matter, right? The more the better. Single words and sentences began to swell with three, four, even five or more words that detracted from the actual underlying plot. But…wait. The plot? There was none to be found. The purple prose, the thesaurus decided, was to cover from the fact that there was no actual plot or depth to this book. And it wasn't fair. Did other thesauruses have to go through this? It was sure that there were some, somewhere, but it was still not the proper way to treat one…

Stephanie finished, crying out climactically as the words "perfect", "crooked", and "pale" were chased from the thesaurus an innumerable amount of times. She began panting, closing the thesaurus, and carelessly tossing it aside for the night. She closed her notebook cover as well—who needs to proofread, anyway? After carefully setting that aside, she relaxed by browsing Quizilla and for inspiration.

* * *

This is a true story. Please help prevent thesaurus abuse. If you are, or know of a thesaurus being abused, please contact your local police or Thesaurus Rescue Agency.


End file.
